Somehow it didn't surprise Fuji when he turned to pick up another ball and saw Tezuka standing by the basket, watching him. Never mind that it was the middle of the school day, or that he hadn't said a word to anyone when he'd left at lunchtime. Never mind that he was at the public courts a good twenty-minute walk from school (uncrippled). Tezuka had always had an uncanny knack for understanding him, so it was no surprise that he'd apparently progressed to mind reading.
"Shouldn't you be in class?" Fuji asked, picking up a ball as though being scrutinized didn't bother him. He didn't hit it, just held it in his hand and focused on the ball instead of Tezuka.
If Tezuka had been the type to brag, he would have said that his teachers learned more from his corrections than he did from their lessons. Since he wasn't, he just shrugged. "How's your knee?"
If Fuji had been the type to share his problems, he would have said that his knee had hurt like hell after just the walk to the courts, and that after an hour struggling with motions that had once been effortless, he was nearly ready to hack it off to escape the pain. As it was, he shrugged, threw the ball in the air and hit a simple overhead serve.
The ball went in—injury or no injury, Fuji was still a prodigy—but anyone who had seen Fuji play before would know it was nowhere near what he was capable of.
Tezuka could have told him that he sympathized, remembering his shoulder injury (unhelpful). He could have said that Fuji would recover and be able to play like he had never been hurt (a lie). He could have told Fuji to stop torturing himself before he worsened an already bad injury (hypocritical, and also futile). He could have said that there were worse things in life than not being able to play competitive tennis anymore (hard to believe). Instead, he took the spare racket out of Fuji's bag and asked, "Do you want to play?"
For the first time in weeks, Fuji's smile actually seemed real.